Falling With Style
by mryddinwilt
Summary: Sherlock awakens from a nightmare and thinks about the moments before he jumped. A short angst-y fic. ***No Spoilers for Series 3***


The smell of the lab and Molly filled his brain. It was a comfortable smell. Molly was talking and Sherlock was ignoring her, which felt like the natural order. But as Sherlock bent to look into the microscope the world tilted and suddenly he wasn't inside St. Barts but on it's roof. Panic rose up from his gut, overtaking his heart and shaking his limbs. He looked frantically around but the sidewalk swam before his eyes. He struggled to step off the roof but instead he found himself falling. The air rushing past his head, his coat flapping, the sidewalk racing to meet him.

Sherlock Holmes eyes flew open. A vision of the sidewalk pushed out all rational thought. His breathing was fast and his heart rate erratic. Fear and panic began to subside as his conscious mind took control and he remembered he was in his bed in Baker Street. Not lying on a cold London sidewalk. He sat up, resting his elbows on his knees and sinking his head into his hands. He hadn't had that particular nightmare in a long time but he knew he wouldn't be going back to sleep.

With a groan, he rose and wrapped his dressing gown around his thin frame. His hand absently rubbed his sleep tossed hair as he walked to the kitchen in search of tea. As the water boiled and the tea steeped Sherlock found himself drawn into a dark corner of his mind palace where he kept his worst memories and fears. He didn't often go there but tonight he seemed unable to stop thinking about those final minutes on top of St. Barts.

Sherlock had gone onto that roof with a plan, multiple plans in fact. But when Jim Moriarty pulled that trigger all of his options had disappeared. Sherlock didn't know enough about Moriarty's assassins; where they were located, what surveillance they were using, to risk any of the safer scenarios. The only avenue left to him was the most dangerous. He had to jump, without a safety net.

Sherlock had done the math, the statistical probability of surviving the 62 foot and 7 inch drop was about 25%. If he lived he would probably break his heel, legs, vertebrae or skull. They were not good odds. But if he didn't jump there was a 100% probability that John, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade would die. Those odds were even worse. Logically there was only one choice. As he stood on that ledge his only consolation was that they had planned for this eventuality. He knew how he should fall. He knew that those members of the homeless network would keep John from checking his pulse until they had made sure he would feel nothing. He knew they would make the scene look realistic using the blood he had donated to Molly that night. He knew that Molly was prepared to take care of his injuries and Mycroft had a plan if he needed hospital care. He knew all these things as he stood on that ledge, but none of them made it any easier to jump. The only thing that gave him the courage to jump was the knowledge that his friends would be safe, even if that meant he had to die.

Of course only Mycroft and Molly knew that when he jumped he had no guarantee of surviving. The general public, his "fan club", and even John had bought his elaborate story about airbags, body switching, and multiple accomplices. It was complicated and so it seemed more plausible. Moriarty had told Sherlock that he "always wanted things to be clever" but Sherlock wasn' t the only one. Everyone else seemed to enjoy the more elaborate explanation. Besides no one wanted to believe that the high-functioning sociopath had a streak of selflessness. They liked him as a cold, distant, rude, selfish, and infuriatingly brilliant man. It was his persona and he rather enjoyed being Sherlock Holmes, the hat detective (well not really the hat).

As he sipped his tea, Sherlock contemplated, for the hundredth time, telling John the truth. But it was bound to get very sentimental and Sherlock thought they were just regaining their stride. He didn't want to reopen old wounds or see John cry. No, it was much better to leave it alone.

His tea half finished Sherlock wandered to his violin. He began to play and quickly lost himself to the music.

Downstairs Mrs. Hudson, awoke with a groan, it was 3 am. She drowsily reached for her earplugs as she muttered about having the most selfish tenant in all of London.

* * *

*** So I guess that counts as my Reichenbach Theory. Even though it is a little late. I just don't think that the exchange between John and Sherlock was fake. Sherlock was genuinely scared and sad. To me the simplest answer is that Sherlock didn't know if he would survive. Which also makes it the most unlikely because everyone expects Sherlock to be clever not selfless. Thoughts?***


End file.
